years on the faultline
by Nirav
Summary: the continuing adventures of quinn and santana, best friends with benefits (with guest appearances by saint gaypants and barbra streisand)
1. 2013

_two_

Quinn's dorm had to have what amounted to the worst security on the planet, and her door was some gross color that may have been blue at some point. Santana stared at it, knuckles an inch away, before stepping back and kicking it a few times. God knows what kind of nasty lead paint that is.

It wasn't until a muffled "_Just a minute" _floated through the door that the nerves set in. Only two weeks had passed since the debacle-insanity-brilliant-sex that was Scheuster's failed wedding, and Santana sure had meant it when she said she wouldn't be showing up at Quinn's door with a U-Haul.

An overnight bag and a handle of vodka wasn't moving in, though, so, whatever.

"Santana." Her name came out of Quinn's mouth blandly, somewhere between puzzled and amused, and it wasn't until Quinn's eyebrow jutted up quizzically that Santana realized one foot was still poised to kick the door again.

"Your door looks like it has herpes."

"Hello to you, too," Quinn drawled, leaning against the doorjamb. "Nice of you to let me know you were coming."

"I knocked, didn't I?"

"Only because you were afraid to touch the door." Quinn tilted her head to the side, wisps of hair slipping over her forehead, and Santana's brow furrowed.

"You cut your hair again." She thrust the bottle of vodka into Quinn's arms and skimmed between her and the door, inviting herself in. "I thought the whole venture into lesbianism was a one-time thing."

"Two-time, if you want to be technical, and please, make yourself at home." Quinn set the bottle on her desk, exasperation tingeing her voice as Santana stacked up all the notes and textbooks arranged carefully on Quinn's bed so she could settle comfortably against the pillows. "And I wanted to do something different and it seemed less drastic than dying it pink again."

"Too bad, you could've really owned the whole rebellion-experimentation thing." Fingers flipped idly through Quinn's business statistics notes.

"So, are you here for a reason, or did you just feel like interrupting me two days before I have a stats exam?"

"It's Saturday night, Q, why are you even here and not out doing…something that isn't _this_?"

"Because I have an exam," Quinn retorted. A sigh slipped out and she pushed her hair out of her eyes.

"Saint Gaypants and Barbra are having a bitchfight and stomping around the loft acting like they aren't talking to each other because he seduced her flavor of the week, and I'm sick of their bullshit."

"So you ambushed me?"

"I brought alcohol," Santana offered. She snapped Quinn's book shut—thoughtfully, though, managing to not crinkle any of the study guides—and set it on the bedside table. "Come on, Steinem, let's get wasted and talk about how much we hate people."

Quinn rolled her eyes, a huffy breath escaping before she cracked open the bottle of vodka and taking a sip.

"That's what I'm talking about," Santana said with a smirk. She crawled down to the foot of the bed so she was barely a foot away and yanked the bottle out of Quinn's hands.

Quinn just raised an eyebrow at her—that insufferable eyebrows and that ungodly attractive half-smile twitching at her lips—and accepted the bottle when Santana offered it back.

Sometime around 3:30, Santana woke up effectively on top of Quinn, legs twisted together uncomfortably. Her hip throbbed, a bite mark standing out darkly against her skin, and there was a line of hickeys parading up from Quinn's collarbone to her jaw.

Okay, so, a bottle of vodka and an overnight bag still didn't count as a U-Haul. Santana flopped back onto the bed, putting space between them, and measured the even beats of Quinn's breaths against her own heartbeats until she fell asleep.

* * *

_three_

It was an unseasonably warm—hot, really—day in April when Quinn walked into the loft without knocking. Santana looked up from where she was sprawled on the floor, arms akimbo and eyes locked on the ceiling, taking in Quinn's bemused expression.

"It's hot and the AC isn't working."

"And laying on the floor helps?"

"The floor is cold as balls and you know it, so yes."

Quinn settled down to the floor delicately, sitting on her heels and adjusting the hem of her skirt. It slanted down across her legs, the diagonal hem covering down to her knee on her left leg. There was a long scar on her left thigh, along the line of her femur, just like the one that skimmed alongside her spine. Blindly, Santana's fingers found the bottom of the scar on Quinn's thigh, feeling out the thick line of tissue through her skirt and walking up towards her hip.

"It's April," Quinn said quietly after Santana's fingers had traced up and down the scar twice.

"It's hot."

"It's prom season."

Santana propped herself up on her elbows, staring at Quinn. "Don't think Yale has prom, Q."

"No—I—prom. Last year." Quinn's hand drifted down to her leg, finding the scar again. Her palm rested against it, eyes locked against Santana's. "That was the last time I was in the chair."

"Oh." Santana inhaled slowly, slipping back down to lay flat again. One hand reached out, hovered, then wrapped around Quinn's arm and tugged, tugged, pulling until Quinn laid down next to her.

"You know, I was so pissed at you at prom, standing up like that. Scared the crap out of me."

Quinn took a slow breath, shifting imperceptibly closer, her side pressing lightly to Santana's. Santana sighed huffily. "Don't ever do that again, you moron."

"Love you, too," Quinn murmured.

"Shut up." Santana shifted, sliding an arm around Quinn's shoulders and pulling her closer. "I can't deal with having my best friend in a wheelchair again, so odn't do something crazy like try skydiving just because it's been a year."

"Right." A few seconds passed. "This floor is so uncomfortable."

"Oh my God, I know."

The fact that they ended up in Santana's bed, her legs hooked over Quinn's shoulder and her fingers tangled in blonde hair, was entirely by accident.

* * *

_four_

Really, it was completely Rachel's fault. She's the one who threw the end of semester party, she's the one who shoved an entire bottle of wine at them to get them to leave her alone with her boytoy, she's the one who left them unsupervised.

Kurt burned his sheets the next day, stole Santana's keys, and wouldn't let them back in until they bought him replacements.

* * *

_nine_

"So are you really sure that you aren't just a little bit gay?"

"Still like guys, Santana." Quinn's hair was a mess, her skin flushed, and she grimaced as her muscles protest when she stretched.

"You sure? Because if I can turn you gay, then I could probably turn anyone gay, and there's got to be some kind of high-paying market or reality TV offer in that."

"You can't turn someone gay," Quinn said snootily. "You should know that better than most, McKinley High Bicycle." She grunted when Santana kicked out tiredly, foot colliding with Quinn's knee.

"Whatever. Seriously, though." Santana rolled onto her side, propping her head up and staring down at Quinn. "You're way too into and way too good at all this—" She paused to gesture gratuitously at her own still-sweaty body—"to not be at least a little more than _curious_."

"What are you going to do when you get a real job and have to stop talking like a sixteen year old?"

"It's part of my Lima Heights charm. Answer the question, Fabgay."

Quinn sighed, rubbing a palm over her eyes. "Maybe. I don't know."

"You hooking up with any other girls?"

"Yeah, right. Everyone at school thinks I have a psychotic girlfriend named after Carlos Santana."

"So no guys, then, either?"

Quinn's head lolled to the side, eyes finding Santana's in the dim light of the loft. "What are you asking?"

Santana rolled her eyes, stretching cat-like and yawning. "Don't read into it, I'm just trying to figure this out."

"If I'm gay? You realize that there are other possibilities than just _gay _or _straight_, right?"

"No, I'm completely ignorant of the concept of bisexuality and my first girlfriend was definitely not bisexual."

"Hey, you're the one asking stupid questions here." Quinn yawned, sitting up long enough to straighten the blankets on the bed before curling onto her side and eyeballing Santana sleepily.

"I'm just trying to figure this out," Santana says again.

"Who says there's anything to figure out? It's just sex."

"Since when is anything _just sex_ with you, chastity belt?"

"Since when do you even care about what anything means?" Quinn parrots back. "Sex isn't dating, after all."

"Of course we aren't dating," Santana said snippily. "I can't handle your crazy."

"And you're insufferable," Quinn said, droll and quiet. "Glad that's settled."

"Terrific," Santana deadpanned, turning her back to Quinn and yanking the covers over her shoulders.

Ten minutes later, she was half asleep, and Quinn's fingertips skimmed along the curve of her shoulder blade, and then Quinn shifted closer, one arm falling over Santana's stomach as she curled around Santana's form.

"Friends," she breathed out, the words pressing into Santana's shoulder. "Best friends."

"God, you're such a sap," Santana muttered. "Don't forget the benefits bit, it's the most awesome part."

"Go to sleep."

"I'm _trying_, leave me alone."


	2. 2014

_eighteen_

"I swear to God, if you two don't get out of the bathroom _right now_—"

"Shut up, Streisand!" Santana shouted, voice booming into Quinn's ear.

"Jesus, shut up," Quinn said, swatting at Santana's thigh in retaliation.

"I have an audition this afternoon!" Rachel said, her voice rising an octave. "This is so much more important than your shower sex!"

Santana snorted, tipping her head over to rest on Quinn's shoulder. "Should we tell her we're not actually having sex?" She settled more comfortably into Quinn's side, stealing her coffee and taking a sip.

"Where's the fun in that?" Quinn stole her coffee right back, finishing it in one gulp.

"It would ruin our reputation."

"We have a reputation?"

"Well, Rachel thinks we're dating and both nymphomaniacs."

"We're not dating. You're way too high-maintenance."

"And you're psychotic. It works out pretty evenly. Why did you drink all the coffee?"

"Because I _made_ the coffee."

Rachel pounded on the door again. "Don't make me pick the lock!" she screeched.

"You don't know how to pick a lock!" Santana called. She stretched, wincing at the tightness in her muscles. "You seriously need to warn me next time you want to get all up in this against a wall, Q, I haven't been this sore since the Cheerios."

"Well, maybe if you got more exercise, you wouldn't be so sore."

"Not all of us have a fancy Ivy League gym we can go to." Santana yawned and pushed herself up to her feet, reaching out automatically to help Quinn up as well. "If we don't leave she'll start screeching out some show tune to smoke us out."

"I need to head out anyways," Quinn said. She passed the empty coffee mug to Santana and stepped around her, fixing her hair in the mirror. They'd been fighting for space at the mirror before Rachel started hounding them, and then another hour after that just to spite her, and Santana had done her make-up three times just to kill time. "I want to catch the early train so I can finish this paper before tonight."

"Overachiever. What's happening tonight?"

"I'm going to some play with Micah."

"Use protection, I don't want to catch anything from you. Like a baby."

"Pretty sure Micah's gay."

"Well, you say you're straight, but somehow you keep banging me, so…grain of salt." Santana elbowed her way up to the mirror, rummaging through Rachel's bag of make-up and emerging with Rachel's favorite eyeliner.

"He's also trying to set me up with his roommate."

"Also gay?"

"Yeah, but seeing as she's a girl, I probably have better chances with her." Quinn quirked an eyebrow at Santana's reflection. "Rachel will murder you."

"I'd like to see her try." She pocketed the eyeliner. "Okay, let's go, I want to hit that coffee shop on the way to the train station."

Quinn opened the door, gliding out past an indignant Rachel. "Why do we always have to go to that coffee shop?"

"Because I'm playing the long game on that one barista! I've almost got her number." Santana followed her out into the loft, blowing a kiss at Rachel, who darted into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.

Quinn ended up leaving Santana at the coffee shop to flirt with the barista so she didn't miss her train. The next morning, Quinn had a coffee date lined up with Micah's roommate, Brooke, and a triumphant text from Santana regarding the barista and _btw taking the train up this weekend, I need that skirt back that you stole from me_.

* * *

_twenty-one_

"Okay, so," Santana said through heavy breaths, her limps rubbery and loose and she lay splayed across her bed. "Not that I'm complaining about multiple orgasms or anything, but what happened to the whole you having a girlfriend thing?"

Quinn was silent, staring up at the ceiling. Santana gathered enough energy to roll over onto her side, brow creasing as she took in Quinn's profile. "You okay, Q?" she asked softly.

"Yeah," Quinn said after a few seconds. She turned to face Santana, pulling the blanket up higher. The heat in the loft was on the fritz again, and the temperature had plummeted when the sun went down hours earlier. "I broke up with her."

"Why?"

"She was still hung up on her ex."

Santana stared at Quinn evenly for long moments, before saying, "It's hard to get over some people, Q, you know that." Her eyes drifted down to the wrinkled sheets under her, and she took a slow breath.

Quinn sighed. "It's not like you and Britt. She was still _sleeping_ with her ex."

"What?" Santana's melancholy snapped over to rage in a heartbeat. "She cheated on you? I'm going to kick her ass all the way back to Canada."

Quinn rolled her eyes, chuckling. "She's not from Canada, she's from Minnesota."

"Whatever, she grew up in an igloo and I'm going to make her wish she never left."

"Don't. You really don't need to."

"Bullshit, no one cheats on my friend," Santana argued, rolling onto her stomach and propping herself onto her elbows.

"Oh, trust me, I know," Quinn said. She smiled serenely. "It's fine, though. I'm okay."

"You sure?" Santana said dubiously. "You say the word and I can get a whole posse of lesbians to come with me to beat her ass."

"Very sure." Quinn yawned, settling more comfortably into the pillow. "We weren't together very long and we were better as friends anyways."

"Okay," Santana said after a moment. "So is she back with her ex? Because that girl was _hot_ and if you don't mind I—"

"You're not sleeping with Brooke," Quinn said sharply.

"But—"

"No."

"Really?"

"Really. Go to sleep."

* * *

_thirty_

"Morning!" Rachel chirped as Quinn shuffled into the kitchen. "When did you get here?"

"Midnight or so," Quinn said blearily, greedy hands reaching for the coffee cup Rachel was holding out for her.

"I would say I didn't hear you come in, but I certainly heard—"

"Shut up, Rachel," Santana muttered as she materialized behind Quinn. "Give me coffee."

Quinn took another sip of her coffee and then dumped a spoonful of sugar into it and handed it to Santana. Rachel watched silently as Santana drank her coffee and Quinn prepared another cup for herself. Santana drained her coffee and hip-checked Quinn out of the way so she could make it to the fridge, holding the orange juice behind her for Quinn to take as she searched through the leftovers.

"Santana, pizza is _not_ breakfast."

"Not if you're a vegan who eats fake pizza, no. But if you aren't, cold pizza is a longstanding traditional breakfast for college-aged Americans."

"You're starting to talk like Rachel," Quinn commented from the other side of the kitchen, where she was pouring orange juice into four glasses.

"Take that back," Santana said through a mouthful of pizza, rolling her eyes as Rachel smiled triumphantly.

Quinn handed a glass each to her and Rachel and hopped up to sit on the counter next to the coffee maker, preparing another cup of coffee with cream and sugar.

"It's not an insult," Rachel said indignantly. "I have fantastic elocution."

"That's not a word," Santana mumbled. The hand holding the pizza waved sleepily at Kurt as he skipped into the kitchen, fully dressed with his bag slung over one shoulder. Quinn offered him the coffee she had prepared and pointed to the last glass of orange juice.

"Morning, beautiful roommates," he said cheerfully. "And hello, beautiful roommate's lesbian lover who made me coffee and is thus the most beautiful of us all." He kissed Quinn on the cheek and chugged the orange juice, transferring his coffee into a travel mug and grabbing a banana.

"Good-bye, beautiful people," he added, waving and disappearing from the loft.

"Where's he off to?"

"Breakfast date with whatshisbutt," Santana said.

"David," Rachel supplied.

"Do we have stuff for pancakes?" Santana asked, sticking her head back in the fridge. "Real pancakes. I'm still hungry."

"You can't cook," Quinn said mildly. "You almost burned my dorm down last month making Easy Mac."

"Faulty wiring is _not_ my fault. Make me pancakes."

"Eat some fruit, it's better for you," Quinn said, even as she slid off the counter and shoved Santana out of the way. "You guys need to go to the store. You're going to get an omelet instead. Rach, you want anything?"

"No thanks," Rachel murmured, chin propped in her hand as she watched Santana take Quinn's vacated spot on the counter. Quinn moved around the kitchen easily, pulling together ingredients for Santana' omelet.

"Stop staring, Rachel, it's weird," Santana said, reaching out and flicking her in the forehead.

"I'm not the weird one here," Rachel retorted, smacking Santana in the shoulder.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It _means_ that you two are ridiculous!"

"You're the one who does vocal warm-ups at six in the morning," Quinn interjected.

"And you two are the ones who can't admit that you're dating," Rachel said, crossing her arms smugly. "Either you're here or Santana's with you every weekend, you basically finish each other's thoughts, you do that creepy anticipation thing, you keep me awake _all night_ with your extremely vocal lesbian sex. Just grow up and admit that you're in a relationship!"

"We're not dating," Santana said flatly. "Quinn's crazy, I don't want to date that."

"And Santana has the emotional maturity of a fourteen year old boy and no intention of ever working a day in her life," Quinn added. "I would murder her after a week." She smirked when Santana saluted her merrily and Rachel rolled her eyes.

"Oh, please!" Rachel said. "How can you not realize it? Aren't lesbians supposed to be moving in with each other after the first date and incredibly committed and emotionally prescient?"

"Okay, one, offensive," Santana said. "And two, no. Just no."

"And three, Quinn's not a lesbian," Quinn said. "Four, even if I was, I sure as hell wouldn't date Santana."

"Amen to that," Santana muttered.

"Come on," Rachel insisted. "When was the last time either of you went out with someone else?"

"Last week," Quinn shot back. "Ethan, pre-med."

"Last night," Santana said triumphantly. "Simone, tattoo artist. Dumber than a post, but wicked hot." Rachel blinked stupidly at them, and Santana high-fived Quinn.

"But—"

"No," Santana said.

"But—"

"Just let it go, Rach," Quinn said. "We're not dating. We're friends, we have sex, that's it."

"When has sex _ever_ been simple for you?"

"Since I started having sex with people I actually _want_ to?" Quinn said shortly, wheeling around with a spatula clenched in her hand. "Let it go, okay? Jesus, Rachel, not everyone has a pathological need to define themselves by being in a romantic relationship at all times."

Rachel flinched, jerking visibly back from Quinn's words, and Quinn sighed, rubbing a hand over her forehead. Santana watched silently, eyes sliding back and forth between the two of them.

"I'm sorry," Quinn said, her voice tight. "That was uncalled for. But we're not dating, okay? We're friends and what we have works, and we're both happy. Isn't that what matters?"

"You're right," Rachel said quietly. "I shouldn't have—I'm sorry." She padded over to the sink, setting her empty coffee mug in it, and walked off towards her room.

"That was harsh, Q," Santana murmured.

"I know," Quinn said, taking a deep breath. "I'm just tired."

"Damn right you are," Santana said with a smirk. "That's what happens after a night like—"

"Finish that sentence and I'm giving your omelet _and _your number to the doorman and telling him you want to go on a date."

"I _hate_ you."


	3. 2015

_fourty-seven_

"God, I needed that." Santana kissed Quinn once more, biting down on her lip briefly before maneuvering her back so Santana could drop her feet to the floor. Quinn laughed softly, dropping down into her chair while Santana repositioned herself to sit on Quinn's desk in the tiny room that counted as the office she got for being a TA.

"Any particular reason why? I thought you had a date last night with—who?"

"Maggie," Santana said. She leaned over to try and reach her purse; unable to reach, she snagged Quinn's instead, digging through and locating a mirror. Sitting back up, she set to work fixing her hair.

"So what happened with Maggie? I thought you liked her."

"I did," Santana said. "I mean, I do. Kinda. But she—I mean." A dark, embarrassed flush spread up her neck as she mumbled, "She's crap in bed."

Quinn laughed. "Really? Another one?"

"Really!"

"Maybe she just needs some practice?" Quinn offered. Santana scoffed.

"She has no learning curve. It's not like I'm blowing her off after one go!"

"Uh huh," Quinn said. She caught the mirror Santana threw to her, fixing her own hair. "Dammit, Santana, stop leaving gigantic hickeys, will you? I don't have an unlimited amount of money to spend on concealer. How many chances did she get?"

"Four," Santana muttered, crossing her arms.

"She could still improve," Quinn said.

"Whatever, if your crazy ass could figure it out that quickly, anyone could."

"I can't tell if I should be offended or complimented by that," Quinn said mildly. She sighed, setting the mirror on the desk and rolled her chair closer. "But that's not the point."

"What's the point then, Dr. Phil?"

"How many girls have you broken up with this year because the sex sucked?"

Santana flushed again, crossing her arms tighter over her abdomen and looking down at her knees.

"Exactly," Quinn went on. "Several. And that's fine, whatever, but the point is, maybe—_maybe_ you should consider the idea that you're not built for random sex. Maybe you need that emotional connection for it to be good for you."

"What?" Santana's head snapped up, eyes wide. "Are you kidding? Emotions are ridiculous and just get in the way."

Quinn rolled her eyes. "The last good sex you had, who was it with?"

"Were you even _here _three minutes ago?"

"I'm awesome, yes, but we're also best friends," Quinn shot back. "Last good sex you had with someone else?"

Santana glared at her for long seconds before sighing. "Sarah."

"And you really liked her, right? You guys were together for almost six months, which is something like forever for you."

"So?"

"Before Sarah?"

Santana sighed. "Brittany, okay?"

"That's kind of the point I'm trying to make," Quinn said softly. She leaned forward in the chair, her hand falling comfortingly on Santana's knee. "Santana, you're my best friend. You throw yourself into bed with girls because you think that getting serious with someone will end up with you getting your heart broken like you did with Brittany, or Sarah, and you think mindless sex with someone you don't care about is better than no sex. But maybe you _need_ some kind of emotional connection to really get something out of sex."

Santana stared down at Quinn's hands for long moments, avoiding Quinn's eyes. "Maybe," she finally said, her voice quiet.

"There's nothing wrong with that, you know," Quinn offered.

"I know," Santana said miserably. "But it's complicated, and complicated is stupid and I deal with enough complicated with my roommates. I don't need it in my sex life."

"What if it's worth it?"

Santana huffed out a breath, kicking out gently against Quinn's legs. "You're not allowed to take anymore psych classes, okay, I can't deal with you being well-adjusted. I just came here for sex, not to get analyzed."

Quinn smirked, pinching Santana's thigh and sitting back in her chair. "You just don't like that I'm right."

"You're never right," Santana said. "Come on, let's get lunch before I leave."

"You can stay," Quinn offered. "Micah's staying at his boyfriend's this weekend, I have the apartment."

"Would if I could, Quinnie," Santana said cheekily. "But…I have to work."

"What?" Quinn froze, arm outstretched to grab her purse. "You got a new job?"

"I got a new job," Santana confirmed. "One of the guys from the coffee shop decided that my coffee-slinging abilities would make me a great bartender."

"You _would_ manage to get a job bartending through the barista job you got fired from."

"What can I say, I'm fabulously talented. Now buy me food, woman."

Quinn smacked her on the arm, shoving her out of the office and locking the door behind her. "Don't call me that."

"You like it, BFF, don't even lie."

They made their way out of the building, and Santana fell quiet as they walked across campus. She finally spoke up just before they reached the diner they always went to for lunch.

"Sarah called me," she said quietly. "A couple of weeks ago. She's moving back to New York."

"She is?" Quinn said, her tone neutral. They slowed to a stop on the sidewalk, and she turned to face Santana more fully, eying her appraisingly.

"Yeah, she said LA sucks and she misses the city."

"That's all she misses?"

Santana blushed delicately, and Quinn smiled, hooking her arm through Santana's and continuing towards the diner. "Of course she missed you," Quinn said. "She always did have some weird appreciation for your horrible manners."

Santana elbowed her in the ribs, and Quinn laughed as they settled at a table.

"Just make sure she knows that if she fucks you over again, I'm going to kick her ass, okay?"

"No one's scared of you anymore, blondie. You lost the fear factor when you lost most of the crazy."

"Is that a challenge?"

"It's a fact. And you know Sarah could take you in a fight, you're all fragile-like and whatever."

"So that _is_ a challenge?"


	4. 2017

_fifty_

Quinn slept like the dead after a good orgasm or two—she always had, once she got her post-coital snark out of the way—but Santana, for once, couldn't fall asleep to save her life. She finally gave up, slipping out from under the covers and into some shorts and a t-shirt before making her way out to the kitchen.

She had been sitting on the counter for ten minutes, most of the way through a glass of cheap wine, when the lock clicked and Rachel tiptoed in.

"Your curfew is midnight, young lady," Santana called, smirking when Rachel jumped a foot.

"God, you scared the crap out of me," Rachel breathed out. "What are you doing up? It's almost—"

"3:30 in the morning," Santana said. She hopped off the counter, turning to face Rachel and swirling the wine in her glass. "Which means that you were out with someone, and you got lucky, and then you left his poor ass alone in bed to avoid the awkward morning after."

"I—"

"Don't even, Elphaba. I've walk-of-shamed my way home too many times to not know the look."

"It's not shame."

"Just awkwardness, then," Santana offered. She filled up the glass again and offered it to Rachel. "So, was he that bad in bed, or do you just not want to deal with him in the morning?"

Rachel sighed, accepting the glass and swallowing half of it in one go. "Neither, really. He want completely….average. In every sense."

"That's got to suck," Santana said. She grabbed another glass out of the cabinet, filling it up before dumping the rest of the bottle into Rachel's glass. "School guy, or total stranger?"

"School," Rachel muttered. "He's in my music theory class."

"Terrible idea."

"I know, alright, I'm going to have to deal with him in class for the rest of the semester. Trust me, I'm completely aware of my stupidity."

"No, I mean, he's probably totally closeted and you fell for his bullshit."

Rachel slapped her shoulder, snorting into her wine. "You're terrible."

"I'm hilarious."

"Never," Rachel deadpanned. She swished the wine around in her glass, staring pensively down into it. "Why are you still awake? You weren't working tonight, were you?"

"Not tonight," Santana said quietly. "Q kept me up."

"Quinn's here?"

"Yeah, I called her."

"What about—"

"She dumped me," Santana said bluntly. Rachel gasped, melodramatic as always, and her cheap glass of cheap wine clanged against the cheap countertops so she could grasp at Santana's hands.

"I'm so sorry! What happened? Are you okay?"

Santana chuckled, shaking her head and letting Rachel clench at her hands. "I don't know. She got a job offer in Chicago and when I didn't jump at the idea of moving with her, she said we weren't ready long distance."

"That's horrible, I can't believe she would say that! Santana, you were a fantastic girlfriend to her."

Santana laughed, full and loud, and squeezed Rachel's hands. "I know, right?"

Rachel shook her head, gripping tighter to Santana's hands. "She's an idiot. I never liked her."

"Oh, please, everyone loved Sarah, don't even lie to me."

"Just because she happened to appreciate musical theater in a way you never would doesn't mean I liked her enough to outweigh my anger at her breaking up with one of my best friends." Rachel paused, brow furrowing momentarily. "You called Quinn after Sarah broke up with you?"

"Yeah."

"I would have—"

"I know, Rach," Santana said quietly. "But you had rehearsal, and Quinn doesn't have class or office hours tomorrow, and I just—didn't want to think, and Q is the best person for that."

"Also, I wouldn't sleep with you."

"Oh, please," Santana smirked. "If I hit on you you wouldn't know what to do until I had you on your back."

"You wish," Rachel muttered. Her forehead creased again, eyes glazing over as some thought took her attention, and suddenly she added, "I know you're going to get pissed if I ask this, but…are you sure Sarah didn't break up with you because of Quinn?"

"What about Quinn?"

"I mean, you two have this _thing_. You act like you're dating."

Santana jerked her hands away, pushing them through her hair tiredly. "Jesus, Rachel, we're not dating. We've never dated. And I haven't slept with Q since I was with Sarah, I wouldn't—"

"I know you haven't, Santana," Rachel said quietly. "I didn't meant to—I know you would have never cheated on Sarah. But just…maybe she felt that she was always second place to Quinn." She sighed. "I know I have."

Santana stared, her own brow wrinkling. "What?"

"You and Quinn have this connection that no one can touch," Rachel said. "It leaves everyone else behind. For me, it's always going to feel like I'm second choice because you two have apparently fabulous sex together. Maybe, for Sarah, it felt like she could never be as close, emotionally, to you as Quinn is."

"I'm not dating Quinn," Santana said slowly. "I never have. Why are you so convinced we are?"

"I just don't understand," Rachel said. "When she's here, it's exactly like you're dating."

"What, because we're friends who have sex?"

"Santana, you and I are friends, but even if we had sex, we would never be as close as you and Quinn are."

Santana jerked away, sliding off the counter and striding across the kitchen. Her arms crossed over her stomach protectively, and she glared darkly at Rachel. "I'm not in love with her," she said shortly. "And she's not in love with me. Me and Quinn, we're like the same person. We get each other, we have bangin' sex, but I don't get jealous if she sleeps with someone else."

"And what about her?" Rachel asked, her voice soft. "Are you sure she doesn't get jealous when you sleep with someone else?"

"Yes," Santana said sharply. "I know this is hard for you to believe, but she and I do more than screw. We _do_ talk. I know what's going on with her even when we don't talk. I know her."

Rachel sighed, slumping back against the counter and throwing her hands up. "Okay. You're not dating, you're not in love, there are no romantic feelings involved at all."

"Goddamn right," Santana muttered. "Jesus." Silence stretched across the kitchen as Rachel stared contemplatively down at her shoes and Santana fidgeted.

"You know," Rachel broke the silence. "I always thought that Quinn might be gay. Before we were all even in glee club, I wondered."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. She picked on me so much, she targeted me, she never seemed to care about the boy she was dating too terribly much, I couldn't help but wonder if—"

"What, if she was into you?" Santana barked out. "Oh my God, you're an idiot. Seriously?"

Rachel flushed, shrugging and avoiding Santana's gaze. "It wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility," she said defensively.

"No, that's not what I—I mean, okay," Santana said, voice tight over her laughter. "Rachel, Quinn's know she's liked girls since the fourth grade. It was never a question of denial or repression so much as her being so determined to protect herself that she got a nose job and played the queen bitch until that became who she was. Her family was shit to her and school was somewhere she could be the one on top instead of the punching bag, so she sure as hell wasn't going to let some singing diva steal her perfect boyfriend and throw her to the wolves."

Rachel gaped at Santana indignantly. "I never—"

"Dude, I know, okay? But high school is all politics, and Quinn lived it like that, but you were living it like some fantasy where the best people were the most popular, and she hated you for that."

"She hated me?" Rachel squeaked out.

"No." Quinn's voice rang out from Santana's bedroom, still heavy with sleep and startling them both. She stood sleepily in an oversized t-shirt that Santana normally slept in, her hair a disaster, and glared at them both. "I never hated you, I just hated that you could be who you wanted and I couldn't, and I resented you for that, and it all started there. No, I didn't hate you; no, I wasn't dealing with some crush on you I had to repress; no, Santana and I aren't dating; yes, Santana knows what she's talking about. Can you two please shut the hell up so I can sleep?"

"Oh," Rachel said faintly.

"Everybody _shut up_!" Kurt shouted from his bed, and Rachel jumped while Quinn rolled her eyes.

"Go to sleep, Kurt, it's all a dream," Santana called out soothingly. She crossed over to where Rachel was standing. "You good?"

"Yeah," Rachel said. She offered a small smile at Quinn. "Can I just—" She threw her arms around Santana's neck.

"You're one of my best friends," she whispered into Santana's collarbone. " I love you and I just want you to be happy."

Santana sighed wrapping her arms around Rachel's waist. "You too, Streisand." She slapped playfully at Rachel's ass, smirking at the squeal it drew from her. "Now go to sleep, theater slut."

"Santana," Quinn said sharply.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, sexist words blah blah blah. Seriously, women's studies has to be the worst minor you could have ever picked."

Rachel shook her head at them, gathering her purse and disappearing into her room.

"Can we sleep now?" Quinn said.

"Aw, did I wear you out?" Santana said playfully. She edged over towards Quinn, grasping her hips and stepping up flush against her.

"Yes," Quinn deadpanned. "Now let me go, I want to sleep." She spun out of Santana's grasp and strode back to the bed, flopping down tiredly.

"So is that a no to one more round?"

"It's a gigantic no."

"You're no fun."

"For someone who doesn't get jealous when I sleep with other people, you sure get jealous of sleep when that's what I want to do."

Santana grumbled, yanking the covers away and over herself. "Bitch," she muttered affectionately. "By the way, I'm definitely picking someone up at the bar tomorrow night."

"I'll catch the afternoon train," Quinn said drowsily. "Don't forget to change you sheets."

"Please," Santana scoffed. "There are these twins that show up every Friday, I am totally getting you hooked up."

"Go to _sleep_, Santana."

"By the way," Santana said blandly. "Jason is opening another bar and he wants me to be the partner."

"What?" Quinn shouted, sitting bolt upright.

"Shut up!" Kurt bellowed again.

"Partner? As in, equal partner?"

"Yep." Santana rolled over onto her back, smirking up at Quinn's incredulity. "He's got the capital, and he wants me to run the new place. Says I have chutzpah, whatever the hell that is."

"Oh my God! Why didn't you say anything?"

"Um, because my girlfriend broke up with me an hour later?"

"Santana!"

"Quinn!"

"Go to sleep!" Kurt screeched.

"Shut up, Kurt!" Quinn shouted back. "Santana, this is huge."

"Yes it is," Santana said mildly. She smirked again at Quinn. "So, tomorrow night, we're going out and getting laid to celebrate."

"Does—did you tell Sarah about it?" Quinn asked quietly.

Santana sighed. "Yeah. I told her it's why I couldn't move to Chicago with her, even if I'd really wanted to leave New York."

Quinn laid back down, pillowing her head on her arms and eying Santana. "You deserve better, you know," she said. "I know I liked Sarah a lot, and I know you loved her, but you can do better than someone who's not willing to work with you for your career."

Santana shrugged, rolling over to flick off the lamp. "Maybe."

"Definitely," Quinn corrected.

"Does that mean I get congratulations-for-being-an-awesome-businesswoman sex?"

"Maybe you would have if you didn't already get post-breakup feel-better sex. Unfortunately for you, now you'll never know."


	5. 2019

_eighty-one_

Santana was sprawled across her bed, pleasant fatigue and the warmth of late-afternoon sunlight filtering through her bedroom windows lulling her to sleep, when her phone beeped, signaling a missed call.

"Gonna get that?" Quinn murmured sleepily, her breath still coming heavy and intermittent.

Santana grumbled something incoherently. She should—it could be work; they were trying a new supplier and it was a huge pain in her ass—but moving her heavy limbs was far more effort than she was willing to put into it.

"Maybe it's yours."

"Mine is still on vibrate, I can never hear it on the floor anyways," Quinn said. She rolled onto her side, leaning over Santana in search of the phone.

"Stupid equity traders," Santana grunted out as Quinn's form spread over hers. "Ugh, Q, come on, you're squishing my entire cardio system."

"When did you and Brittany Pierce start talking again?" Quinn said through a yawn, staring at the phone for a moment before dropping it on Santana's chest as she flopped back down on the mattress.

"Oh," Santana said. She blinked rapidly, shaking the fatigue away, and sat up slowly. "I ran into her when I was at my folks' for Christmas."

"That was two months ago." Quinn's voice was neutral, and she tugged the blanket up around her shoulders. "You never told me."

"I know," Santana mumbled. "I just—needed to figure things out."

"Did you?" Her tone wasn't accusatory, but curious, and Santana relaxed into her headboard, thanking the universe that she had enough money to not need to live with Kurt and Rachel anymore.

"Maybe," she said. "I don't know. We're—I don't know." She took a deep breath. "She's working as a choreographer with some dance company and they expanded to New York. She moved here a few weeks ago."

"Oh," Quinn said, pushing a hand through her hair. "And?"

"And," Santana said quietly. Her phone beeped again, and she mashed at the volume key on the side. "I think we're going to get a drink this weekend."

"Santana." Quinn's voice was firm, her hand warm through the thin material of the sheet. "Are you sure you're okay with that?"

"No," Santana said, chuckling. "But what else am I going to do?"

"Well, you could say no," Quinn pointed out.

"It's _Brittany_," Santana said.

"Right," Quinn said. "Brittany, who broke your heart. I know it's been a while, but are you sure you're ready to dig back into all of that?"

Santana shrugged. "I've grown up, she's grown up. Maybe the timing wasn't right. Maybe we just can't make it work. But wouldn't it be stupid not to at least see her and say hi and see where it goes?"

Quinn sat up, tugging at a stray thread in the blanket. "Do you want me to come with you?"

Santana shrugged again. "Maybe? I don't know. I should ask Britt."

Quinn inhaled slowly, letting out a measured exhale. "I don't think I've spoken to her since—Mr. Scheu's wedding, probably?"

"Yeah," Santana said quietly. "She might be kind of angry about…us."

"Us?" Quinn repeated, eyebrow arching. "What 'us', exactly? There is no 'us'. If she should be pissed at anyone, it should be Sarah."

"Not because we're sleeping together." Santana rolled her eyes. "You know Brittany never cared about that. She just thinks you took her place in my life."

"As what?"

"As my best friend," Santana said tartly. "Look, Q, what Britt and I had in high school was…intense, and weird, and all measure of fucked up because I never knew where I stood with her. Even when you and I were slapping the crap out of each other, I always knew exactly who I was to you, and what you thought of me."

"And now?"

Santana shrugged. "Now, I don't know where I stand with her, but I'm pretty fucking awesome and have an awesome life that I really like, so even if things go bad with Britt, it won't be like last time."

Quinn stared at her appraisingly, as intimidating as anyone with sex hair and a hickey on her throat could ever be, and then narrowed her eyes. "You grew up. When did that happen?"

Santana blushed, shoving an elbow into Quinn's side. "Shut up. Probably about the same time you got a grown up job and a retirement plan."

"You could sound more disgusted by my employment if you tried, I'm sure," Quinn drawled. She glanced at the clock, and then nodded towards the phone still clutched in Santana's hand. "I'm going to take a shower. Call her back, see if she wants to get dinner sometime, all three of us."

"Just dinner?" Santana asked with a smirk as Quinn headed towards the bathroom.

"No threesomes," Quinn said flatly.

"But it's Brittany—"

"Nope."

* * *

_eighty-two and a quarter_

"Wait, wait, wait," Santana breathed out, hands clutching at Quinn's hips tightly. "We shouldn't—Q, hold up."

"What?" Quinn mumbled into her neck, breath hot and spiced with rum.

"We shouldn't," Santana said again. She stepped reluctantly back from Quinn, skin hot from alcohol and proximity, and shoved her hands into the pocket of her jeans. "Because of Brittany."

"Because of Brittany?" Quinn repeated, brow furrowing. "When did you two—"

"We haven't," Santana said hurriedly. "I mean, not yet, because we're trying to like take things slow and be adults and not rush things, but I'm like one date away from closing."

Quinn snorted, loud and unladylike, and flopped back across her bed gracelessly. "So," she said to the ceiling, conversational and unperturbed. "You and Brittany are _official_ now. Again."

Santana took a slow breath, laying down next to Quinn and staring at the ceiling as well. "Yeah."

"Did she give you her letterman jacket?" Quinn squealed when Santana poked her in the stomach, squirming away.

"Okay, okay, calm down," Quinn said, edging away from Santana slightly. "Serious thoughts only."

"Thank you, jackass," Santana muttered. Quinn's head lolled to the side so she could see Santana, inspecting her profile with drunken scrutiny.

"She's not going to hurt you again, is she?" she said eventually, her voice quiet.

"I don't think so," Santana said. Her eyes stayed glued to the ceiling, fingers twitching against one another nervously on her stomach. "We both grew up, we're in the same space for once."

"Well, technically, you're not, because she's in her space and you, currently, are in mine." Quinn smirked. "But," she added, rolling onto her side and leaning up on one elbow. "That's good. I'm glad you're giving it a try."

"Yeah," Santana said softly. She smiled, drunk and genuine, and curled into Quinn's side.

"So," Quinn said after long minutes of silence. "Who's better in bed?"

Santana leapt up, gaping down at Quinn, as Quinn laughed loudly. Gaping gave way to glaring, and Santana kicked out at Quinn's leg, landing a booted toe directly into her calf.

"Ow! Shit," Quinn swore. "Not that one, I pulled it on my run this morning."

"What, you want me to kick the other one?" Santana said sardonically, arms crossing over her chest and boot reared back for another kick.

"I have a 10k in a week, so no, not particularly," Quinn muttered. "Sensitive much?"

Santana rolled her eyes. "No, I'm just way too sober for this conversation."

Quinn gestured vaguely towards the kitchen. "You know where everything is."

Santana stalked off towards the kitchen, leaving Quinn to flop back onto the bed. "Don't touch the Barbancourt!" she shouted suddenly.

"Too fucking late, sweetcheeks!"


	6. 2020

_eighty-three_

"So," Quinn said conversationally, slotting a glance over at Santana. "That was fun but probably a terrible idea, so do you feel like explaining it to me?"

"Well, when two incredibly hot people are attracted to each other—" Santana started.

"Santana," Quinn said, sharp and quiet.

Santana sighed, scrubbing her hands over her eyes. "Britt and I had a fight and she left," she admitted.

"Left you, or just left the apartment?"

"I don't know," Santana said quietly. "She walked out yesterday and I think she's staying with Caroline, but she's not answering her phone, and Caroline hates me so you know she isn't going to tell me anything."

"She only hates you because you fired her boyfriend."

"He was incompetent, okay, I know chinchillas that are better bartenders than he was."

"Really not the point," Quinn said, rolling her eyes. "How did it go from you and Britt fighting to you in my bed in the middle of the afternoon, smelling like a distillery?

"I do _not_ smell!"

"Makers Mark," Quinn said flatly.

"Fuck you and your sense of smell," Santana muttered.

"My entire bedroom smells like whiskey now, so…come on, explain."

Santana sighed. "I don't know, okay, we were talking about Rachel's party and I said I might be late because of work and she dropped some bomb about taking over the choreography for another show, and it just…blew up. She thinks I work too much, I think she's going to hurt herself if she keeps working at the pace she is. She wants me to let Scott take on more responsibility so I'm not at work so much, I want her to listen to her fucking doctor and not push so hard so she doesn't blow out her knee again."

"I thought she was completely healed. You said the physical therapist cleared her."

"She blew out her knee, Q, she can't keep dancing like she didn't. I know she hates it, but there's a reason peoples' dance careers end with that." She huffed out a sigh, standing from the bed and gathering her clothes.

"You know better than anyone that you can't just pretend injuries like that never happened." She glared pointedly at the scar along Quinn's thigh, faded from time but forever visible.

"Brittany knows her body, Santana," Quinn said quietly. "And she isn't stupid. She knows her limitations and she knows that if she tries to keep up the pace she did before she hurt it, she'll be back in with the doctor. She _knows _that, and you know it, too. Don't try to control her."

"What about her, then?" Santana snapped. "Why does she get to say I work too much? Why does she get to be controlling?"

"Because you _do_ work too much," Quinn said. Her eyes rolled towards the ceiling again. "Don't try and bullshit me, Santana, you've never been able to and you know it. You spend twelve hours a day at the restaurant, and you're brilliant at your job, but you're dating Brittany now, remember? Your job can't be the only priority in your life anymore."

"It's not!"

"Then _act_ like it," Quinn shot back. "Look, you don't have to stop working altogether. Brittany wants you to be happy, and you love your work. But you also love her, don't you?"

Santana froze, shirt half buttoned, and stared down at Quinn. Quinn stared back evenly, patiently, until Santana broke, dropping down to sit on the bed.

"Yeah," she said quietly. "I do." She took a slow breath, rubbing at her eyes tiredly.

"You always have," Quinn said, just as quietly. "You're my best friend, S, I know you better than anyone. You never stopped loving Britt, not really, not through anything. Even when you were with Sarah, you were never as happy as you have been the last few months."

Santana groaned, slumping against Quinn. "I fucked up," she grumbled.

"Yeah, you did," Quinn said with a smirk. "And, well, you and I both did, because I shouldn't have slept with you just because you showed up and I haven't gotten laid in weeks. But you can fix your fight with Brittany, and you will, because you both have been waiting for the chance to make this work since you were sixteen. Buy her some flowers, go to Caroline's, talk to her. Actually talk. You guys will sort this out." She pressed a kiss to the top of Santana's head. "Also, take a shower, you smell like you're completely made of whiskey."

"Yeah, yeah," Santana said, shoving away from Quinn and standing once more.

"But not here, I need the shower," Quinn added.

"Hot date tonight?" Santana smirked, buttoning her shirt the rest of the way.

"Yes, actually." Quinn stood as well, wrapping the sheet around herself.

"Oooh, who? Is it Laura? I think she's in love, she's always asking when you're coming back to the restaurant."

"Definitely not," Quinn muttered. "She's like twelve, and I learned my lesson about dating your employees."

"She's 21!"

"Really not the point, unless the point is to remind that we're getting old," Quinn said. She grabbed Santana's shoulders and marched her out of the bedroom. "I'm going to dinner and a show with James."

"Who's James? What show? Stop manhandling me, woman."

"You've met James. And Rachel's show, actually, since I never got to see if because someone scalped my opening night tickets to buy her girlfriend a present."

"It was her birthday and I was short on cash because someone's boyfriend was an incompetent bartender who landed me with a shitload of fines, Rachel forgave you eventually, and I have definitely not met James."

"Yes," Quinn said impatiently. "You have. At Kurt's, after his birthday party."

Santana stared at her blankly for long seconds, before her eyes abruptly widened in realization. "Birthday James? Ironman triathlete James? Walk of shaming out of _Kurt's_ _bed_ James?"

"Right," Quinn confirmed.

"He's gay!"

"He's really not," Quinn said. "He's exactly as gay as I am, and he's picking me up in two hours, so will you please _get out_."

"Kurt is going to kill you."

"Kurt has no leg to stand on, seeing as he's stolen at least three of Rachel's conquests."

"He's going to _kill_ you."

"I can take Kurt, he's never exercised a day in his life. Besides, he's pretty happy with Kyle and their gross alliterative relationship."

"You're fucking Kurt's ex! Does he even know how to have sex with a girl?"

"One night stands don't count and that is so incredibly far from your business that I cannot put words to it," Quinn exclaimed. "Now leave, I have to get ready."

Santana paused, hand on the door, looking back at Quinn curiously. "Why are you this anxious about it?"

"Because I like him!" Quinn said. "A lot."

"Really." Santana crossed her arms over her chest. "What's he do? Where's he from? Do I need to threaten him with a shotgun?"

"He's an entertainment lawyer, he grew up here, he went to NYU, he's very polite and very attractive, and now you know exactly as much about him as I do, so get the hell out of my apartment so I can get ready."

Santana laughed, shaking her head. She kissed Quinn's cheek and pulled the door open. "Use protection with Jimmy."

"Don't forget to buy her flowers!" Quinn threw after her, shoving the door shut.


	7. Epilogue: 2023

_epilogue_

The day Rachel was nominated for a Tony Award for the role she originated, she went borderline catatonic, and Santana wound up throwing a glass of ice water on her to shake her out of it. Brittany scolded her, Kurt was unperturbed by it, and Quinn laughed and provided a towel for Rachel.

The night she won her Tony, Rachel's manager spent un ungodly amount of money to rent out her favorite bar in Manhattan for a private party. Santana, as always, showed up fashionably late, though for once it wasn't because she was working; she had just gotten a little too caught up in her girlfriend and they had to change clothes and redo their makeup to disguise the sex they'd had against the wall in their front foyer.

"How can you be late to this?" Rachel screeched when they finally sauntered in. "I won a Tony! My first Tony! You're not allowed to be fashionably late to my celebration!"

"Rachel, calm down," her manager said soothingly. "We have plenty of time to celebrate."

"Yeah, Rach, chill," Brittany chimed in. "Besides, you know she's always in such a better mood after getting laid."

"It's true," Santana said with a smirk. "Now come here, smurf, let me hug you."

Rachel rolled her eyes, but stepped into Santana's arms anyways.

"Proud of you," Santana mumbled, flushing when Rachel squeezed even tighter. They both jumped when Brittany wrapped her arms around both of them and lifted them off the ground briefly.

"Brittany! Down! Down!" Rachel shrieked while Santana laughed.

"We get caught in one tiny traffic jam and there's an orgy happening by the front door." Quinn strolled up, fingers tangled with James', and smirked at the three of them.

"There you are!" Rachel said, leaping at Quinn. "Quinn, I won a Tony!"

Quinn laughed, catching her friend and hugging her. "You won a Tony. Of course you won a Tony."

"She'll be insufferable now," Santana commented.

"Wasn't I always?" Rachel said tartly, head still pressed into Quinn's shoulder.

"Oh, I don't know," James said. "I'm sure you could really take it to a new level if you wanted to."

"Oh my God, shut up," Quinn said, horrified. "Do you really want to encourage that?"

"Of course he does," Rachel interjected. "James actually cares about my feelings, unlike some people here."

"Telling you that you can be _more _insufferable counts as caring about your feelings?"

"Don't use logic on me right now, Santana, I just won a Tony."

Kurt's voice floated over the din of the party, summoning Rachel over to the bar. "Don't leave," Rachel said, glaring at all four of them. "You're all contractually obligated to stay until at least midnight."

"I have to—"

"Of course we'll stay," Brittany interrupted, clapping a hand over Santana's mouth. Rachel bounced up to kiss Brittany on the cheek and disappeared into the crowd.

Quinn turned to James and slapped his arm. "Why do you encourage her?"

"I can't help it," he said. "She's such a wee tiny little thing, I want to see how big her ego can get before she actually starts to float."

"I knew I liked him," Santana said as she tugged Brittany's hand away from her mouth, linking their fingers. "He's a keeper, Q."

"Funny you should mention that," Quinn said. She shot a sidelong glance over at James, stepping a little closer into his side. "We kind of need to tell you something."

Santana froze, eyes wide. "You didn't."

"We're still going to have a ceremony," Quinn said hurriedly. "But we'd been talking about it for months and trying to figure out the timing and everything, and—"

"And we just got tired of talking," James said. "So we decided to go ahead and get the legal crap out of the way, and then we can take our time planning a ceremony without all of the pressure."

"I can't believe you!" Santana shouted. She punched Quinn in the arm, then James, then Quinn again. "You assholes! I was going to plan the greatest bachelor parties for both of you _ever_ and you went and eloped?"

"Technically, we just went to the courthouse," Quinn said, rubbing her arm and glaring at Santana. "Eloping implies running away and we never left the city."

"You insufferable bitch, come here," Santana said, yanking Quinn into a tight embrace. "I hate you."

"You do not," Quinn said, hugging her back just as tightly.

"No, I don't," Santana mumbled, burying her face in Quinn's neck. "I just can't believe you got married without me."

"I told you, we're still going to have a wedding," Quinn said. "But we were never going to get off our asses and _do _it if we weren't already married."

"You are so backwards."

"You're one to talk," Quinn said, stepping back. Santana had barely pulled away when Brittany leapt in, picking Quinn up and spinning her around. Quinn laughed as they spun, and Santana moved over to hug James.

"You're both assholes," she said in his ear.

"You love it," he shot back. They took a step back to avoid Brittany's spinning, and Santana elbowed him in the ribs.

"Okay, I have to ask," she said quietly. "Because I'll probably never get another chance now that you kids became _respectable_ and shit."

"What's that? Do I need alcohol to answer this question?"

"Who's better? Kurt or Quinn?"

"Oh my God, I need alcohol."

"Ah-ah-ah, sonny, no you don't." She wrapped a hand around his elbow, holding him place. "Come on, Jimmy, just tell me, because Kurt is _still_ a bitch to Quinn about you two and he makes snide comments all the time and I would really, really love to put him in his place if I can because God knows neither of your two chickenshits ever will."

"He is?"

"Of course he is, Kurt doesn't like it when people take his things."

"Excuse me, I was never his _thing_," James said indignantly, pulling up to his full height. "Where is he? I'm going to—"

"No, you are _not_," Santana said, grabbing his shirt and dragging him over to the bar instead. "Come on, just tell me."

"Quinn," he said firmly.

"Hundred percent swear?"

James leaned in, smirking. "Kurt wasn't even _close _to the best one nighter I had."

"I knew it!" Santana crowed, slapping a hand against the bar. "Quinn is a _beast_, there's no way he was better than her." She flagged down the bartender and pointed at the Johnny Walker, holding up two fingers.

"Who's not better than me?" Quinn asked breathlessly, cheeks red from Brittany's celebrations.

"Kurt," Santana said. Quinn flushed even brighter, and she slapped Santana's arm.

"You said you were staying out of that!"

"I had to know, okay, so I can put his bullshit down once and for all."

"I can't believe you!" Quinn said. "And you!" She rounded on James, glaring. "Stop talking about our sex life!"

"Oh please," Santana interjected. "I _invented_ your sex life."

"Don't make me hit you again."

"Don't hit my girlfriend," Brittany said, materializing behind Santana and yanking her back protectively.

""She deserves it, trust me," Quinn muttered.

"She kinda does," James said. He accepted the drinks from the bartender and handed one to Quinn, keeping the other for himself.

"Hey, that was mine!"

"Get your own," Quinn said peevishly. James kissed her on the cheek, tangling their fingers together.

"Come on, let's go tell Rachel and steal all her glory."

"Capital idea," Santana said. "Shoo. Leave me to drink in peace with my girlfriend."

Quinn rolled her eyes, following James away from the bar. Santana leaned back into Brittany briefly, watching them go, before she kissed Brittany swiftly and darted after them, catching Quinn by the elbow and tugging her away from James so she could hug her once more.

"I love you, you dumb bitch," she whispered.

"Love you too, S," Quinn said, holding her tightly. James took the drink out of her hand so she could hold onto Santana tighter.

"And I'm glad you're happy," Santana added before stepping back. She straightened Quinn's sweater from where her hug had set it askew and kissed her on the cheek. "Now go make Rachel scream."

"That's the plan," Quinn said. She paused. "You'll be my maid of honor, right?"

"Oh my God, you moron, I can't believe you're even _asking_ that," Santana exclaimed. "I would have murdered anyone else you asked. And then you, for asking anyone else. How much fun would it be to be the maid of honor at a wedding for a corpse? None at all."

"So that's a yes?"

"That's a hell yes," Santana confirmed. "And those parties are still happening, for the record. This is the one time in my life I can plan a joint bachelor/bachelorette party where the bride and groom will appreciate _all _of the strippers, and I refuse to let the opportunity go to waste."

Brittany walked up, handing one of the drinks in her hands to Santana. "Go tell Rachel," she interrupted. "I want to watch her freak out, it'll be like high school all over again."

Quinn laughed, stepping back to James' side. "That's the plan." She winked at the both of them, and squeezed Santana's hand tightly once more before they resumed their path.

"They're married," Santana mumbled. "Married."

"Yep," Brittany said, sipping on her drink. "Married."

"Quinn is _married_."

"You know how we talked about having kids someday?" Brittany asked mildly. "I was thinking we should start working on that soon. Just so we can one-up Quinn and James and make Rachel's head explode again."

"Quinn is—wait, _what?"_

Across the bar, Rachel's unmistakable shriek echoed off the walls, and Santana stared at Brittany's calm expression for long seconds, considering Brittany and a child and her family, scattered around a Manhattan bar, before smiling and nodding and stepping in to kiss her.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Alright, ladies and gents, that's that. Thanks for sticking through this whole mess of crazy! And I'll try to keep this from being too long-winded, but there are a few things I'd like to address: most specifically, a lot of the feedback I've gotten (here and on AO3) on the idea that this should end with Quinn and Santana together.

First and foremost: this was never intended to be Quinn and Santana romance. I knew that before the first sentence was written. Unfortunately, I also didn't plan particularly well, because I structured this story such that every scene was immediately following a boning between them. While I really enjoyed that, it also was a really good way to shoot myself in the foot, because it severely limited how much the readers were able to see of the relationship: Quinn and Santana, Quinn and the people she was dating, Santana and Brittany. I'm toying with the idea of going back and writing some excerpts at some point as standalone pieces, just to fill in some of the blanks that this structure necessitated.

That said, though, I don't agree with the idea that Santana and Brittany were just a high school tween romance that couldn't amount to anything later on, just as I don't think that friends who have sex and never fall in love are unrealistic. I feel like the most important progression for Quinn and Santana was that they were moving in opposite directions regarding their relationships with sex- Quinn away from the idea that all sex is intrinsically linked to heavy emotional and psychological issues, and Santana away from the idea that sex is completely severed from emotion and psychology- and meeting in the middle. And again, it's hard to demonstrate that with the way I structured this, but I also had a lot of fun playing with this structure.

Anyways, the point is, Quinn and Santana and the way their friendship unfolded in the context of sex did a lot to help them each grow and mature and realize what they want out of life, and for Santana, that lead her back to Brittany. For Quinn, that wound up with her loosening up enough to accept her sexuality and become comfortable with it to the point where, not only is she happy with who SHE is, but she's so secure in it that she has no qualms with something like, say, marrying a guy who she met because he slept with Kurt.

I'm going to cut myself off before I go on forever about this, because I have a lot of feelings about the relationship between sex and love and friendship and could talk for ages about it, but I won't. If you've read (skimmed, scanned, wahtever) this, the tl;dr point of it all is that Santana and Quinn were never endgame in this fic, that the focus was on their friendship and not the sex they were having- with each other or with other people- and if I didn't do a good job of demonstrating that through the writing, then I apologize. Also, y'know, thanks for reading! I'm glad so many people stuck with it.


End file.
